A Haunted Angel
by Lothiel
Summary: Following the events of the movie, Christine's life is falling apart and she finds herself haunted by the angel she cannot escape.
1. Prologue

A/N - Welcome to an epic of a story that I've been working on and off again for a year and a half (and it's still not finished!). I finally decided that I need to start posting. I hope you enjoy this latest saga. **Again, I write purely for pleasure, so please no comments on spelling or other trivial details - I don't care.** Instead, I welcome your thoughts and ideas, and I look forward to continuing some serious story-telling after a long spell of writers' block and wishy-washy-ness.

This first post is a bit of a teaser, I must admit. Please bear with me. The length is intended to be a little shorter than a normal chapter.

* * *

**A Haunted Angel**

**Prologue**

She stumbled out of the church, clutching the small framed picture of her father in her slender hands. A single dried tear was the only evidence of her grief, save the unfathomable depths of despair mirrored in her soft brown eyes. The sun had set, but a faint crimson glow still lingered in the western sky. Only the brightest of stars had begun to emerge from their veil of day.

Christine hastened through the doors, and in her preoccupation, nearly stumbled into the figure lurking upon the stone steps. She felt a hand close around her wrist in a tight, icy grip. She cried out in surprise and fear, looking up into the face of the man cloaked in shadow. It was _him_! How did he find her here? How did he know that this was her only sanctuary in the world now? Had he come to mock her now? To torment her tenfold for the wrong she had done him?

The moonlight gleamed in his steady, narrowed, green eyes. Such coldness was upon his elegant features now, only half exposed by the brilliant white mask that lay upon half his face. A gasp seemed to fall from her lips as she realized who the man was. The cry only served to anger him, for his grip tightened upon her wrist, to the point of causing pain. Her hand unintentionally loosened its grip upon the small framed picture and with a cry of horror she watched as it fell from her hand and landed upon the stone steps with a shatter of glass.

A low moan sounded from her throat and she dropped to the ground. He had let go of her now, but she was too distracted by the accident to notice. The revered picture of her father, so carefully preserved all these years, lay in its scratched silver frame, littered with shattered glass. She cried softly in anguish, trying to gather together the pieces in her small hands, as though she might be able to repair the damage. But even her actions worked against her. The glass cut into the skin of her palm, eliciting a sob from her trembling lips. Her hands shook and she was unable to finish her task. The picture still lay in its frame, looking up at her as though in betrayal.

"Papa," she cried softly to herself as she bent over her knees.

Each sob bitterly shook her body. Her only memento of her departed father lay ruined upon the steps. It was possible to repair it, the frame replaced along with its glass overlay, but it was the last remnant of her father's identity, of hers too, and she had ruined it. She had no one in this world and had let go of everything that had once been dear. She could barely afford the cost to repair the picture. Gone were the days of doting admirers, of love struck vicomtes, and of singular gifts placed mysteriously on her dresser.

A pair of gloved hands lifted her from the steps and her aching knees, seating her properly down upon stone. Her eyes still lay upon the ruined picture. She could not bear to look at _him_ right now. She only watched as one hand reached down to lift the picture from the steps. He brushed away the glass carefully and lifted it into his pocket. Christine trembled as he lifted her hands gently and studied the injured one with a cool, calculating gaze. A small cut lay across the palm of her right hand. It was not deep enough to require stitches, but it still bled mercilessly. He lifted a white handkerchief from his pocket and carefully dabbed at the wound. A soft whimper fell from her lips.

Christine found her gaze slowly moving towards his face, as though an invisible force was guiding her head. At first, he did not look at her. His intense gaze was upon the wound while he worked to stop the bleeding, but as the task was finished, she noticed his eyes move upon her. She could see what he saw- the same haunted image that greeted her each morning. Her face, once lively with blush-hued cheeks, was pale and drawn. Indeed she had not been eating well. The once glossy, neatly kept brown curls were now dull and covered with a shawl. But her eyes were the most alarming of all. Happiness and joy had once lingered so close to the surface of her brown eyes. Now they seemed as immeasurable depths, devoid of any joy or girlish mirth. A deep-seated sorrow had filled them now. They seemed to always quiver with emotion, but never let loose their tears. They were no longer the eyes of Gustave Daae's beloved daughter.

Suddenly, without warning, Christine bolted from the step and took off running down the road. Her cloak billowed behind her as she scampered off and vanished into the dusk that was nearing the darkness of night. She glanced behind her only once. The steps of the church were empty. The ghosts of the past were indeed visiting her. _They will forever_, she thought.

* * *

Christine shut the door and pressed her thin frame against it, as though afraid the spirit would have followed her. After a moment, she remembered to draw the lock and found herself drifting towards the small cot that dominated the modest apartment. Her fingers drifted along her wrist, and she found bruised flesh. A ghost could not have left its mark in such a manner, could it? She could remember exactly how the ghostly hands looked upon her flesh – long musician hands, gifted with inhuman strength and splendid masculinity. Her cloak fell from her shoulders as she sunk down upon the bed, pressing her face into the pillow to stifle the cries.

_He_ was supposed to be gone now. She knew all along that his absence was her punishment. She would live in constant reminder of what she had forsaken. But she had never expected to see _him_ again. Perhaps her penitence was not enough. To live alone in the world, struggling with what little skills she possessed to barely make a living was not enough. Perhaps he would forever haunt her steps – a reminder of what she had so carelessly given up.

_The picture is gone now_, she suddenly realized. _I have nothing of my father anymore. He has taken the last beloved memory away from me. He has taken everything away from me. _


	2. Chapter 1

A/N - Thank you to all who reviewed! I haven't given up on An Angel's Inferno - it's taking a little while to get back into it.

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Chapter 1

Christine lived in a small apartment in the city residence of a prominent Parisian family, the Dauches. The small, thin girl who had once risen to the heights of diva at the Opera Populaire now lived a life of obscurity. Christine Daae had fallen from the heights of society. The news circulating throughout town was that the De Chagny family had convinced Raoul to end the engagement. Supposedly, the embarrassment of marrying so low weighed heavily on the family. Raoul had been very reluctant to let go of his childhood friend, but in the end the will of his family dominated his decision.

The fire at the opera had nearly decimated the grand building. No more music graced its lavish halls. Madame Giry and her daughter Meg had moved out of the Opera and had long since settled into a comfortable, yet modest apartment near a dance studio. Christine would have sought out Madame Giry's help, but she knew that by doing so, it would only draw _him_ to her whereabouts. She did not deserve her angel anymore. Aside from that strong feeling of remorse, she could not bear to see the face of the man who had once been her angel of music. The man that had sent her away. The man whom she had left in ruins.

But now he had returned, be it ghost, phantom, or angel.

It was on Sunday when she finally emerged from her labors at the Dauche household. A gentle morning rain had begun and stubbornly refused to leave. The sky was clouded in shades of grey, unaccommodating to the bright sun that undoubtedly waited to stretch its warm rays across the dreary land. Wrapping herself tighter in her cloak and tightening the hood over her head, Christine made her way reluctantly down the Parisian streets towards the familiar site of the small church she attended. It paled in comparison to the great architecture of Notre Dame, but there was peace and warmth here that the great halls of the famous cathedral lacked.

Was it wise to mount the steps of the church where_ he _had seen her, not even one week earlier? Perhaps not, but other motivations compelled her to follow the same steps she had taken for many months now. She could hear the gentle strains of the choir as they readied themselves for Sunday mass. The music brought the faintest of smiles to her lips. As much as it brought her joy to hear it again, it also pained her greatly, for now her life was devoid of her own music. Music would always be a reminder of what she used to have, of what her father had introduced her to, but most of all, the music would forever remind her of _him. _

Christine cast a solemn eye on the spires of the chapel above as she climbed the stone steps. Her pale, thin hand glided along the stone rail and she winced slightly, having forgotten the injury that still tried to heal itself. Her labors over the last week had certainly not helped quicken the process. If there was not scrubbing to do, whether it be upon the floor or in the kitchen, there had been dusting, cleaning, and endless tasks.

She sat in the pews to the far right, away from the prying eyes of the more well-to-do worshippers. The area in which she sat was populated only by her and an old woman, who was 

bent over her pew and muttering her prayers with wrinkled lips. Christine watched the ritual with strange detachment. Watched as the priest lifted the goblet aloft and continued the prayers. Watched as the faithful took wafers upon their tongues in communion. In truth, her eyes remained steady upon the large cluster of candles that adorned a table in one of the church's many alcoves. Lit in loving devotion or bitter remembrance, the shrine of candles flickered softly beneath a crucifix of Christ.

It was not until the service had ended and most of the worshippers had departed, save a few in confession or still huddled in their pews, when she finally emerged from her seat and drifted toward the shrine. Her long, worn cloak brushed the dust from the ancient stone floor as she glided towards the soft glow of the candles. Her legs bent instinctively beneath her and her body bowed in silent prayer before the crucifix. Christine found an unlit candle and her hand immediately drifted towards a small candle to light it. As the candle was lifted above the light of the others, her hand froze in midair, shaking slightly in fear. For lying unnoticed upon the table until now, as though it had always been there, was the small portrait of her father. The shattered glass that had marred its surface had been replaced with a new pane. The frame looked polished and shining in the candlelight. Hesitant fingers sought out the cool, smooth surface of the glass before winding themselves around the silver frame.

Christine lifted the picture to her breast and tried to suppress the cry from her lips. Her body shook silently for a moment. A passerby would have only seen a slight tremble in the cloaked form that knelt before the shrine. The feelings that threatened to overwhelm were quickly shoved into the dark recesses of her mind.

She rose quickly, glancing about the darkened church with feverish eyes, as though she could catch the one responsible. But no one was there. There was only the old woman, still bent over in her pew, only a lone priest wandering the aisles, and only a couple of alter boys conversing at the front.

The air was still and suddenly cold.

With fearful eyes, she tucked the portrait into her cloak and hastened out of the church. She rushed through the wet Parisian streets, neither stopping nor resting in the small alcoves of doorways. Her hood had loosened and fell back behind her, allowing the rain to soak the long, dark curls. The porcelain face was startling white beneath the heavy locks of her hair. She did not notice the chill that had begun to settle in her bones.

When she reached a familiar doorway, Christine allowed her body to sink against the door frame, only partly shielding her shivering body from the downpour. The rain dripped from the roof, settling into a puddle at her feet. Pulling the picture from her pocket, Christine looked upon the familiar and comforting face of her father. She longed for his arms to lift her from the street, to shield her against his chest, but she knew that such fantasies were not real. Fairy tales were not real. There was only the grim certainty that this was her life. She would never be allowed to forget what she had given up. She would forever be haunted by _his_ shadow.

With bloodless lips, she said, "I am sorry for turning away from your angel, papa."

With the last ounce of strength her body could afford, Christine knocked on the wooden door beside her.

* * *

Antoinette Giry, once reputable ballet instructor at the Opera Populaire, stood over the shivering form that was huddled at her door. Sopping wet and dirty in attire, Giry immediately reasoned that the figure was a street urchin. However, upon closer inspection, after turning over the wet curls that hid the face, and lifting the pale chin with her strong hand, she nearly drew back in shock. Young Christian Daae, the most promising talent to have graced the opera, the orphan whom she had cared for since childhood, lay huddled on the stone steps in a state she had never imagined to find her in.

The girl's eyes were barely open. Lashes fluttered tiredly along her pallid cheek. Her breathing was shallow, as though she had spent every ounce of strength her body could afford. Her lips parted for a moment and in her delirious state, she spoke in shaking words.

"I-I am s-sorry," she uttered, barely audible, but discernible to Madame Giry's acute hearing.

"Meg!" the elder woman yelled over her shoulder.

The rush of feet upon the wooden floor was followed by the casting of a shadow across the newly lit steps. Giry glanced up at her daughter and a frown crossed her normally stoic features. The girl stared down in horror at the figure on the steps. Her delicate brow creased with emotion before she threw herself down beside her friend.

"Christine!" she cried out, clutching her friend's arm with gentle hands.

"Meg, help me carry her into the drawing room," Antoinette instructed, lifting the unsteady girl from the steps and supporting her on one side. Meg drew up on the opposite side and steadied Christine's arm over her shoulders. The two women carefully led her into the small apartment.

A pleasant, warm fire was burning upon the grate of the Giry's modest fireplace. Meg freed herself from Christine's shaking form before scrambling to move a chair closer to the hearth. Antoinette removed the sopping wet cloak that hung limply across Christine's shoulders before carefully lowering the young woman upon the chair. Her dress, a stark contrast to the glorious and opulent days at the opera, was dark and simple, and seemed to hang loosely upon her body.

"She has not eaten properly," Giry remarked with a discerning eye.

"Shall I fetch some food, mama?"

"Yes, bring a bowl of broth."

She turned her attention back to the young woman before her, hearing Meg's retreating footsteps upon the wooden floor. _How long has it been_, she thought. _A year? A year has changed her so significantly? _Antoinette had heard only the barest of whispers concerning the de Chagny incident. There were rumors that the family was unhappy with Raoul's choice for a bride and had ordered an end to the engagement Antoinette had tried to seek out Christine after the news had begun to spread, but she seemed to have disappeared. Secretly, Antoinette had feared the worst. Christine had lived a difficult life as a result of her father's death at such a young age. When she had come to live at the opera house with her daughter, Antoinette had painstakingly tried to draw the silent girl from her grief-stricken world. Progress had been made. She had grown into such a lovely young woman, and with such a talent that she would have never expected. _Well_, she thought, _she is the daughter of a famous violinist_.

When _he_ had made his presence known, buried away beneath the cellars of the opera, there had been an unmistakable change in the girl. Never had Antoinette seen such an extraordinary improvement in the young talent. The careful, meticulous training of Christine Daae's voice had been obvious. She swiftly rose to become the most popular soprano to grace the stage of La Opera Populaire.

Sadly, her throne of honor was quickly snatched away. There had been the incident of Don Juan Triumphant, and then everything had changed forever. Someone so promising and talented was suddenly spirited away from the life that was being built before her. She had run off with the handsome young Vicomte. Antoinette had honestly thought it best. The obsessive devotion that the Phantom, whom she had always known as Erik, had bestowed upon the young soprano was overwhelming for such a girl so innocent to the world. Had he truly intended to make her his bride? There had been the veil upon the floor in his lair, but there was no bride. She had escaped back into the world of light. Erik was gone as well. As strangely as he had appeared in the young girl's life, he had vanished from the world. There was only shattered glass to mark the battle of emotions.

Christine had moved into the role of Raoul's fiancé with tentative steps, but it was a life that would be soon snatched away as well. She never was a noble like the rest of them. She worked in a profession seen by high society as questionable. They would never accept her as one of them.

And now, here she was, the young Christine Daae whose journey had led her to the waiting arms of her adoptive mother. There was no trace of nobility upon her brow. No pride or haughtiness upon her porcelain features. There was no delicate blush upon her cheeks. All trace of girlish mirth was gone. Even the light of expectant joy that once shone in her soft brown eyes was lost. There was only weariness and sorrow now. Antoinette could see the pain radiating from her gaze when her eyes occasionally opened and regarded the scene before her with nonchalance before shutting themselves against an unforgotten tragedy.

When she had divested the girl of her wet dress and replaced it with a simple white nightgown, Antoinette carefully fed her from the small steaming bowl that Meg had brought. Meg had knelt upon the floor by her friend's side, gazing up with a concerned expression on her pretty face.

"What has happened to her?" Meg finally asked, her voice a mere whisper.

"I do not know," her mother replied, glancing upon Christine's tired features again, "but we must let her rest tonight. Tomorrow we will learn more."

After Madame Giry had tucked Christine into bed, having moved Meg into her own room, she was about to leave the darkened room when a soft murmur stopped her. She turned slightly, careful with the candle that she held in her hand, and strained to listen.

She thought she heard a single word uttered. A name. Well, not a real name, but a title bestowed upon someone she was familiar with.

_Angel._


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Christine, you cannot go on like this," the gentle yet stern voice of Madame Giry sounded behind her.

Wrapped in a thin shawl and staring aimlessly out of the window, Christine slowly turned her head to gaze at the older woman. Antoinette's eyes seemed to soften when she saw the expression in the young woman's eyes.

"I know," she replied gravely. "I must leave the city. There is only the reminder of. . ." her voice trailed off and she bit her lip for a moment before looking up more resolutely at Madame Giry. "I need a change of scenery. I need fresh air to fill my lungs again."

"I have a cousin who lives in England," Antoinette began. She caught Christine's wary eye. "I know it is a long distance away."

"Not as far as the journey Papa and I made," Christine mused, turning again to glance out the window.

Giry took Christine's response as a cue to continue. "My cousin, Giselle, lives in a small cottage near the town of Fairfield. She taught French for many years to the children of a wealthy nobleman. Now she makes her own way as a seamstress. Perhaps it would also do you good to stay with her for a while."

Christine turned from the window and regarded Madame Giry for a moment in quiet reflection.

"I cannot stay here as it is," Christine said. "I do not wish to be a burden to you or Meg. There is nothing in Paris for me. I think I would like to visit your cousin, but on one condition - that I would be given work and not have to live upon her expense."

A smile softened Madame Giry's sharp features. "I shall write her in the morning. In the meantime, I want you stay here with us. You look awful, my dear," Giry remarked, stroking her hand along the girl's pale cheek. "It would do you good to regain your strength before you make your journey."

_Diary of Christine Daae_

_April 17, 1873_

_All of my preparations to leave for England are finished. I have spent nearly six weeks with Madame Giry and Meg. I shall miss them a great deal, but I know that I must make this journey. Too many memories haunt me here. A strange pain seems to fill my senses every time I venture out into the city. It is like the fragment of a memory I have long forgotten. _

_I visited the grave of my father one last time today. It pains me so to think I shall not see it for quite some time. There will be a whole ocean between him and me now. Of course, there has always been much more dividing us. Still, I wish that he was with me right now as I set off on my adventure. I know that he will always dwell in my heart. _

_Raoul does not know of my departure. He has long since turned back into his world of privilege. I do not blame him for my misfortune, for I had a part in shaping it. We parted on good, yet difficult terms. I was sad to say goodbye to such a wonderful young man. My dear, sweet friend from childhood! But strangely, the parting was not as painful as I had expected. I mourned his absence, but I mourn even more for all that has transpired. I mourn for the loss of my angel. God forgive me. _

_I know now that there is no one who can burden themselves with my fate other than myself. I have no prince of childish faerie tales to whisk me off to his castle. The lap of luxury has forsaken me, and perhaps it is best that I had not been placed in its riches. _

_As I cross the ocean, I will mourn everything that I have left behind. No one can understand the anguish I endure each day. For I have lost the most important gift. . .my music. There is only stillness in my life now; only a quiet that is far from peaceful. Gone are the days of his music, of the thrall that befell me each time I heard his voice. The magic has faded away. _

_If only. . ._

_No, I only hurt myself further for dwelling on what could have been. Others may judge my transgressions as they see fit. I do not care what they think. I must shoulder this burden for the rest of my days. I must live in the knowledge that I will never see him again. Though he still frightens me in so many ways, my heart concludes that something important was lost when he sent me away. I do not know this feeling in my heart, for it is as foreign to me as the lands I once traveled with my father. _

_I must put down my pen. My hand quivers strangely as I finish this._

The channel crossing seemed to pass more quickly than the journey on land. After disembarking from the large ferry, Christine found a coachman and displayed her intended destination, carefully written out by Madame Giry. The man nodded briefly, readjusted his hat, and took her bags from her. After loading them upon the waiting carriage, he helped the young woman inside, and she found herself not alone. An older woman and a young child sat across from her. The woman dozed restlessly while the child busied himself with a book. One glance over the book and Christine could tell it was a sensational tale, filled with adventure, strange lands, and mysterious strangers. Just the sort of book she would have read as a child.

The journey to Fairfield took nearly an entire day. They stopped only briefly in a couple of towns to change horses and stretch their legs. The countryside was lush and green, not nearly as warm and inviting as France, but more rugged in its beauty. The wine vineyards of France were now replaced with humbler crops and hayfields. The British must have stronger constitutions to live in this climate, she thought to herself. The waning summer sun was beginning to set.

Christine rested her head against the padded frame of the seat and watched the countryside slip by. Her mind became lost in the passing landscape and soon sleep descended upon her.

An inky blackness filled the sky when she awoke. Her neck ached from the position she had been leaning in. She groggily adjusted her bonnet and straightened the cloak about her shoulders. Her fellow passengers were long gone now, having been dropped off at their stops earlier. Christine glanced out of the window as she felt the carriage begin to slow. The night was very dark and it took a while for her eyes to adjust to light of the stars. As they grew accustomed to the night, she noticed with awe the vast expanse of stars that were spread out across the heavens. The lights and smog of Paris often took away from the grandeur of the stars, but here, nestled deep in the British countryside, the sky offered its full glory.

A small light shone ahead and Christine could feel the carriage begin to slow. Before long, it had drawn up alongside a small stone building. A lamp burned brightly in the window. Christine winced at the brightness of the oil lamp that sat visibly in the curtained window. The carriage rocked briefly as the driver slipped down from his seat. The door opened and a stout British man gestured towards the small structure.

"'Ere we are, miss," he said politely, extending an arm to the tired young woman.

Christine slipped from her seat and stepped cautiously down the carriage's steps. The driver lifted her luggage from the carriage as she waited awkwardly beside him.

"W-where are we?" she asked, stumbling over the English that her father had once taught her.

"Why, right near Fairfield. The lady, Madame Giselle Auclair, lives just a little down that road. You see, this 'ere is the gate to the property beyond, Edenshire Manor. But Madame Auclair lives in a small cottage just beyond the gate. The land was allotted to her by the late Sir Ashby, for her service as governess. The land still falls under rule of Edenshire, but she has the right to live in the cottage for as long as she likes."

Just as the driver was finishing his introduction, a man exited the small building and walked towards them. The light illuminated his face briefly, but Christine was able to see a genial expression on the older man's face. He wore a cap on his head, and a thick jacket to keep out the night air. A pipe extended from his lips, but as he approached, he lifted a hand to remove it.

"Miss Daae?" he asked inquisitively.

"Yes, Monsieur," she responded.

"I am Robert, caretaker of the property. I have been instructed to take you to Madame Auclair's cottage."

The older man lifted her luggage easily and started through the open iron gates. Christine followed behind, wrapping her cloak more tightly about herself. The chill of the night air was undeniable. She hoped that the walk would be short. The land was cloaked in darkness. The starlight was soon blotted out by the dark silhouette of trees which lined the thin winding road.

The driver had been right. Only a short distance from the gates, an offshoot from the main road was found. The small drive ended abruptly in an alcove within a great stand of trees. Therein lay a modest cottage, windows welcoming with the soft glow of oil lamps. A small garden lay beside the cottage. In the moonlight, Christine could make out a well-tended assortment of flowers, vegetables, and herbs.

The caretaker lifted the bags onto the front step and set them down before lifting a hand to knock on the door. Within a short time, light spilled out upon the step and its two occupants as a woman opened the door and examined the visitors with interest.

Christine offered a shy smile at the woman. She could see a vague resemblance in the woman's features to her own Madame Giry. Perhaps it was the eyes or the elegant sweep of auburn hair. But where Madame Giry had been stern and practical of mind, Madame Auclair's demeanor was quite different. She smiled broadly at the young woman before her and extended a hand. Christine clasped her hand hesitantly and was rewarded with a gentle squeeze.

"My dear, it is good to finally meet you," she pronounced in clear, perfect English. Her accent of course, still laced her words.

"Thank you for allowing me to come," Christine responded, struggling with the English that seemed to return to her much too slowly.

The woman regarded her for a moment and smiled faintly. "I can see that my services will indeed be needed. Although, this time it is quite different. I am so used to teaching French, and not the other way around," she lifted a slender finger to her lips in thought before beckoning her inside. "Please, come in. I'm sure you are cold from your journey. There is a warm fire in the hearth and tea to warm your spirits."

Christine followed the woman inside. From the back, she did look strikingly like Madame Giry in her straight poise and elegant stride. But again, as the woman stopped to turn to her new ward, the smile that so easily lifted her lips reminded Christine of the differences.

Madame Auclair lifted the bonnet from Christine's head and silently removed the cloak from her shoulders. She gently ushered Christine into the adjacent parlor where a cozy fire crackled heartily in the fireplace. Robert set the bags down inside the foyer and lifted the brim of his cap respectfully.

"'Night, mum," he murmured, before turning and shutting the door in his wake.

Christine sat down in the large, plush chair offered to her. The fire crackled merrily only a few feet away and warmed her frozen expression. It felt as though she had been cold for so long, as though the memory of warmth took some getting used to. Giselle Auclair returned shortly with a tray housing her tea service and a small plate of sandwiches. She bent over the small table beside Christine's chair and set the tray down.

"You must be cold, my dear," she said, clasping one of Christine's hands in her own. "As cold as death, it seems," she remarked in surprise, gently rubbing the younger woman's hands with her own to bestow any sort of warmth she could.

Christine found her gaze suddenly fixated on the fire. Death. It seemed to follow her everywhere she went and haunted her steps.

_Too long you've wandered in winter. . ._

The words seemed to ensnare her mind. Christine lifted the small cup of tea to her lips and smiled faintly as the warmth spread throughout her body.


End file.
